Ermengarde

Queen of the Courts of Love, she sleeps; one arm
Pillowing her raven hair, as Dawn might Night,
Or Day kiss Dusk; or Darkness, starry warm,
Be gathered of her sister, rosy Light.

Pale from the purple of the damask cloth
One hand hangs, as a lily-bloom might, lone
Above a bed of poppies; or a moth
Might softly hover by a rose full-blown.

Heraldic, rich, the costly coverings
Sweep, fall'n in folds, pushed partly from her breast;
As through storm-broken clouds the full moon springs,
From these one orb of her pure bosom pressed.

She sleeps: and where the moteless moonbeams sink
Through blazoned panes--an immaterial snow--
In wide, white jets, the lion-fur seems to drink
With tawny jaws their wasted, winey glow.

Light-lidded sleep and holy dreams are hers,
Untouched of feverish sorrow or of care,
Soft as the wind whose fragrant breathing stirs
The moonbeam-tangled tresses of her hair.